by Tim Garvin
Seb said, “And a Stinger’s missing? What does that mean?”
“They found the M416 in the creek. One of the launcher cases was still intact and strapped in. The straps of the other had been cut, and the case with the gripstock and battery was gone. And three missiles were gone. And no, nobody’s thinking a suicide plot and terrorism. We’re thinking a pilot’s brain fart and a criminal entrepreneur. The background on the pilot is he’s a family man, dug in, just bought a new house. So maybe some loose asshole with a boat poaching flounder, and he says, hey, free stuff. Or maybe a Marine out camping, or an ex-Marine with a base pass.”
“No ex-Marines, fool.”
“Yes, there are. I arrest the bastards all the time.”
McAllister slowed and was waved through a gate onto a service road by a cluster of Marine MPs. In a hundred yards they left the road and followed the curving tracks of other vehicles through the grasses between the loblolly and oak scrub. The air was bright and sun-cool, and a light breeze carried salt scent from the ocean across the dunes on their left. The crash site came in view, first a thick scatter of Marine response vehicles and government SUVs, then the burned-out hulks of the three-story Super Stallions, one on its side, both nearly nose to nose, as if the collision had been a death grip, and they had fallen together from the sky. Their carcasses were skeletal, black, and mangled. Soldiers and officers stood in groups watching medical teams work in the wreckage.
McAllister pulled up to the khaki command tent. As they crossed the sand to the flap-spread double door, the hum of generators became audible. Inside, a group of twenty-odd officers and enlisted men and women in civilian suits were littered around several map-spread tables. Sheriff Henry Rhodes detached himself from a group and met them in the tent’s center. He said to McAllister, “You filled him in?”
“I did.”
“Thanks, Bill. Seb, let’s go for a walk.”
Seb and the sheriff left the tent, walked a short way across the sand, and stopped. The sheriff had his cap elbow-clamped at his side and now swung it onto his short silver hair. He was thick-bodied man in his late fifties, his wide face now lined and sober, his lips hard-pursed. He gazed into the blue sky and exhaled heavily through his nose. Seb was struck with an impression—the sheriff knew someone on the crews. He was grieving.
A hundred feet away a military-green tractor had finished scraping a flat place in the sand. Teams of Marines trudged from the wreckage with body bags. The bags had handles welded to the ends, so the bodies slumped in wide Cs. The bags, six so far, were being carefully laid in a precise row.
Seb had the fast odd pained impression of the bag’s designer thinking of handles—a convenience for the living—how life goes on past death, past twenty-one deaths in this black wreckage. And the men now assembled, the medical teams and officers watching and the corpse-bearers, had only their grim set silent faces for ballast, or else be blown away by meaninglessness. In Iraq, he had seen many of those faces. There they had an enemy to rage against. Here there was nothing, just empty death and a neat line of bodies. They would be in the other world now, something no one here could see or feel or know, not even him, who had been there. He said, “You knew some of them.”
The sheriff continued to inspect the sky. He said, “I knew one of the pilots. And his wife and kids.” He turned to Seb. He said, “Now here’s where we are. NCIS is handling the county search, and they’re bringing CID in too. The FBI and Homeland and the rest are going to do airport security, a mile perimeter around every major airport on the East Coast. And databases. All the stuff they do. The White House says two days, then it goes public. Probably that shuts down every airport on the coast, maybe the country. NCIS and CID are going to be out and about in the county, out of uniform. They’ll check everyone with a boat, the video feeds, all the launch points. They’re going to knock every door on the water. Thirty-one investigators so far and more on the way from Virginia. They found a campsite on an island right beside where the trailer fell. The whole site was brushed with a branch. The main lead is they let a guy out of the brig yesterday with a Dishonorable. He did a year for punching a sergeant. They already had an active shooter threat on him. He’s a hard-core survivalist.”
“Tom Rogers?”
“No, Grayson Kelly. Why?”
“Rogers just got out of the brig. He contacted me about Pass the Salt.”
“CID will get to him. They’re talking to everyone Kelly might have jailed with.”
“So what are we doing? Warrants?”
A voice behind Seb said, “This your man, Sheriff?”
Seb turned. A tall man in a black suit was gazing intently at him. Amber sunglasses were perched on top of his short black hair. His round face ended in a protuberant chin, like a drip of flesh.
The sheriff said, “Seb, this is Special Agent Lowry.”
Lowry said, “I’m the SAC on this operation. Are you familiar with that term?”
Seb repressed a beginning smile. He said, “I forget.”
“Special agent in charge.”
Seb’s smile broke free. He made it into a friendly nod. He said, “Good to meet you.”
Lowry’s head lifted, pointing his chin. He said, “You’re to deal exclusively with the head magistrate.” He looked at the sheriff. “Who is it again?”
“Wanda Cromarty,” said the sheriff.
Lowry looked at Seb. “Do you know Wanda Cromarty?”
Seb said, “I know her, but not well.”
Lowry said, “You don’t have to be her personal friend. But there is a need for speed.” His gaze uttered impatience coupled with bulletproof condescension.
“I can be quite speedy.”
This remark was either insolent or ignorant. Despite himself, Seb let silence mark the ambiguity.
Lowry dropped his amber sunglasses over his gaze. He said, “You, the sheriff, and Cromarty are the only locals involved. You are all working under the Official Secrets Act. Understood?”
Seb cocked his head and frowned a reply.
Lowry said, “It means you’re bound to silence. Now and forever.”
“Got it.”
Lowry turned to the sheriff again. “I want him posted at the magistrate’s office.”
“Detective Creek just caught a murder.”
“I take precedence, Sheriff. Magistrate’s office. No delays.”
He strode back toward the operations tent.
The sheriff said, “He’s under a lot of pressure.”
“You really want me camped out at the magistrate?”
“No. I talked to Wanda. I messaged you her cell phone. She’ll take your calls. Basically, you’re the warrants man. Everyone on the search teams has got your number.”
“Our deputies are going to see these guys knocking doors.”
“If they do, we tell them a special investigation is underway and to stay clear. I don’t know if it’s going to take much of your time, but it might.”
They turned for a moment to gaze at the line of body bags. Seb said, “I guess I’ll shove.”
The sheriff filled his lungs and blew his breath. He said, “Where are you on Sackler?”
“You want to hear it right now?”
“I do. Get my mind on something else.”
“Main clue so far is somebody came out yesterday morning wanting a thousand a month for security. Straight-up extortion. Leo called his daughter and told her. He was down in the well and couldn’t describe the man, except he was white.”
“That’s an Elton Gleen move.”
“I’m talking to him next. But he was out there around nine, so if it was him he must have come back, since Sackler died around one, according to Walt. Also, Sackler had a broken tibia, probably from getting a foot caught in the rungs of the ladder when he fell. Except he had that rope around his neck which would have stopped him fro
m falling. So that’s an issue. Also, I found a tobacco tin that might have had money in it. Also, the daughter thinks Germaine Ford killed Hugh Britt, and that’s why she left Leo Sackler everything.”
“So does everybody else in the county.”
“So we got a mystery that goes back to the sixties. Or he was robbed. Or he was extorted and things went bad. Or he hung himself and screwed it up. One of the Land women was housekeeper for Germaine. I’ll do that after Gleen. And I want to talk to the ex-governor. See if there was anything behind that grant of clemency.”
The sheriff smiled. He said, “Stinson is going to hard-ass you if you make this complicated.”
“I know, but I’ve got to do the diligence.”
“The former governor’s in the Caribbean with her granddaughter on a sailboat.”
“Thanks. I will not tell Stinson you told me.”
“Who’s got the canvass?”
“Deputy Garland. There’s only a few houses out around there. He called this morning and said someone saw a blue van and a realty car, besides the locals moving around. The van was from Cooper Farms. It was out that morning chasing a drone. Then there’s Coopertown. I told Randall to leave that to me.”
“Look hard at Gleen.”
“I’ll take a run at him. I should be able to finish my list, unless these guys go search crazy, and I run out of time.” Also, that evening Seb had a Pass the Salt practice, which he did not intend to miss. He did not want to mention that though, since it would likely furrow the sheriff’s brow, his detective off singing during the first forty-eight of a murder. He would not miss it though. He owed the living more than the dead.
Alibis
The two men wore slacks and sport coats without ties. Both were tall, in their forties, one black, one white, both with neat hair and shined shoes. They stood together in Elton Gleen’s hot tub yard and announced themselves as federal investigators. They asked if anyone had seen or heard anything noteworthy today or yesterday. Just any little thing out of the ordinary. Anybody out too late, in too early, driving too fast, anybody strange.
Cody had his ears just above the tub water and at first held his head and face stone still. A half hour earlier he had built a careful fire along one side only of his favorite tub, the long two-foot-deep one with the bear-paw feet, and had paid Elton two dollars extra for the double pine scent. If you stayed perfectly still, you could feel the tiny current on your leg hairs caused by the uneven heat. When the investigators appeared in the yard, he sunk down to his nose and ears to hide fear, then popped up again to show innocence, then sunk again anyway, like something was pulling him, which it was—heart-racing panic.
Elton had moved from the Adirondack to a webbed lounger. He gazed up at the two government agents with a clownish smile and let a long, ill-spirited pause continue after their opening inquiry.
Finally, he said, “I have to look over your IDs again. You flashed them too fast.”
The black investigator removed his ID wallet, opened it, and held it before Elton’s face. Elton read, then looked at the other investigator. The man came forward and flipped open his ID. Elton read. He said, “You’re looking for something out of the ordinary? No shit? It’s against the law to be out of the ordinary now?”
The black investigator moved a step closer and leaned over the lounger, hands on knees, his face three feet from Elton’s, letting his coat fall open to show the pistol. He said, “Don’t irritate us, partner. We want to know if you’ve seen anything unusual.”
Elton went cowed. He said, “I get that. No, I get that. Unusual, let’s see. I’m thinking.” He pointed at Cody. “It’s unusual for that motherfucker to pay extra for scent. He might have come into money.”
Dean Fleemer, a short, rail-thin man in a ragged baseball cap and open green shirt, said from the boat-cushion bench, “You cannot remember a smell. I did read that, but don’t ask me where. I don’t think you can remember a taste either.” He nodded and darted an inquiring glance around the yard, an addled effort at topic-changing and peacemaking.
Elton Gleen said, “Dean, shut the fuck up.”
The other person in the yard, a muumuu-clad fat woman with bright pink streaks through her thin hair, sat beside Fleemer. She closed her eyes and, as if for privacy, turned her head away to emit a long, contented chuckle.
The investigator came to his full height. He said, “You’re Elton Gleen, the landlord?”
“I’m the manager. That motherfucker in the hot tub is the owner, if his dad ever dies. That’s the son of the owner.”
“Let me get this across to you. We’re investigating something and want to know what unusual activity you might have witnessed.”
“You’re Navy, aren’t you? I don’t watch that program. Do you have jurisdiction here?”
The investigator said, “How about this, Mr. Gleen? We take you downtown and put you in the box, inconvenience the fuck out of you as an uncooperative witness. How about stand up, Mr. Gleen?”
Elton did not move. He spoke with quiet humility. “Please forgive me, sir. I will be cooperative from now on. Have I seen anything unusual? I have seen several cars leave the trailer park as various ones went off to work. That is not unusual, however. I’m thinking. I come back to my earlier insolent remark that it is unusual for Cody Cooper to buy extra scent, and that honestly is the only unusual item so far today. It’s ridiculous to mention about the scent, of course.” He held his expression sober and sincere, sweeping the fat woman with a hard gaze when her face started to open with delight.
The other investigator walked to Cody’s hot tub and looked down. Cody had sunk to his ears again. The investigator said, “Early for a hot-tub, isn’t it? You relaxing?”
Cody pushed against the tub end, raising his head out of the water to reply. At the last minute though, he didn’t trust his voice. He nodded.
The investigators exchanged what-next glances. Coopertown was not on the water, and they had been assigned it only because of its reputation. The second investigator said to Cody, “Where were you last night?”
Cody said, “Sleeping,” thinking, that must seem true. They can’t know that’s not true.
“Where.”
“In my bed. At home.”
The first investigator said, “How about you, Mr. Gleen? Where were you?”
“Also sleeping. Not with Cody though. Forgive me. That shit just pops out. I was sleeping inside my bedroom in my bed.”
The second investigator said to Cody, “Why did you buy that extra fucking scent, partner?”
Cody’s face went stark. The investigator laughed. He said, “Jamal, let’s blow.”
The man standing over Elton said, “See you later, you impolite motherfucker.”
As the two men walked toward their car, a red Honda pulled up beside their black sedan, and Seb got out. The three men stood together for a moment gazing back toward the hot tubs, talking.
Cody took three deep breaths, then closed his eyes and sunk entirely beneath the water into the black stillness. He could feel his heart thumping and tried to invite the drifting gliding relaxing sensation required for good breath-holding, but the tightness wouldn’t release, and he had to pop up after only a minute. When he opened his eyes, standing patiently at the foot of his tub was Seb Creek, the stubble-faced, ponytailed detective that had arrested him six years ago and once dated his sister. He was looking down and half-smiling in a friendly way.
“Hey, Cody.”
Cody said, “Hey.”
“I saw your sister downtown. She’s bugging me about you.”
Cody was silent, waiting. He had a powerful urge to slip beneath the water again.
“She wants me to get you into the singers.”
Cody sank slowly. His chin touched the water, his earlobes.
Seb said, “We’re practicing tonight, seven o’clock, VFW hall by th
e inlet.”
Cody nodded, poking an eye-level ripple across the surface of the water. He poked another one. They sparkled.
Seb said, “Think you might come?”
Cody felt Seb’s bland gaze like a spear, pushing into him, pinning him. He said, “I guess … well …” Then he said, “No.”
Elton Gleen laced his hands behind his head. “Man, what the fuck anyway. This right here is a disturbance in the field. Two feds, and now Seb Creek.”
Seb walked three steps to stand in front of Dean Fleemer. He said, “Hey, Dean.” He lifted his head to the fat woman. “Hey, Belle.”
Dean said, “Hello, Mr. Creek.”
“You know why I’m here?”
“Someone said I took their trimmer probably. Well, I sure did not. I invite you to search my trailer.”
Belle said, “You do not, Dean, invite any search whatsoever.”
Dean made a slump and bob. He said, “If you got a warrant.”
The Fleemers’ income came from Dean pushing a lawn mower around nice neighborhoods and knocking doors, followed by Belle in their pickup. A year earlier Seb had arrested him for the theft of a Weed Eater from an open garage, an event fortuitously captured on the homeowner’s security video. Dean had done thirty days in county.
Seb said, “I’m not here about trimmers. I’m here about a murder.”
Cody realized then that he had been holding his breath and now let it slowly and pleasantly out.
